Part 1 of 5 of My Journey From Faith.
“I don’t believe I’m a Christian anymore.”
I didn’t say it like a confession. More like someone realizing mid-sentence that the words had been waiting there all along.
The way you admit a relationship is over—not because of a single fight, but because you finally notice you’ve stopped talking.
My relationship with God had grown quiet. Not angry, just… still.
The prayers kept going up, but they started to sound like voicemails.
And at some point, I realized I was the only one checking for replies.
Faith had been my longest love.
It raised me, dressed me, told me who I was.
It gave me language for joy and guilt, belonging and purpose.
And then, slowly, it stopped fitting—like a shirt I kept wearing because it used to feel like home.
I didn’t lose faith in one clean motion. There’s no big lever marked ON / OFF.
It’s erosion—quiet, steady, unhurried.
You don’t notice the shoreline changing until one day you realize you’re standing somewhere new.
I was on a path. One paved with grief and gladness, conviction and confusion, death and resurrection.
I was born again.
But this time, I was escaping Christian grace.
For most of my life, the framework of belief held me together.
It shaped how I spoke, how I loved, how I judged.
It gave me rules for mystery and vocabulary for wonder.
And then, one day, it didn’t.
The questions came first, small and polite.
Then louder.
And I tried to hold on tighter—pray harder, read more, serve better—like you might fight to save a marriage by rearranging the furniture.
But the harder I tried to keep faith alive, the less room it had to breathe.
So this—whatever this is—became a journey from faith to wonder.
It’s still unfolding.
It’s messy and magnificent and more honest than anything I’ve known.
I’m not writing this to argue or persuade.
I’m writing it because it’s the truest story I have.
Because pretending otherwise started to feel like lying to someone I loved.
Leaving faith wasn’t rebellion; it was honesty.
It wasn’t about winning an argument—it was about telling the truth, even when that truth unraveled the life I’d built around it.
And here’s the thing: my life is full of Christians I love.
Some of the kindest, most selfless people I know are still in the pews.
I just couldn’t stay.
Something shifted. Everything did.
And on the other side of certainty, I found relief.
The world felt wider.
Humanity, bigger.
Love, deeper.
Time, more precious.
And mystery—mystery became holy again.
There’s peace in not forcing the puzzle pieces to fit.
Peace in the not-knowing.
These days, the only truths I trust are the ones right in front of me:
Loving my family.
Loving my friends.
Loving my neighbor.
It’s not everything.
But for the first time, it feels like enough.
